


Fire Emblem Drabbles

by Rethira



Category: Fire Emblem Series, Fire Emblem: Fuuin no Tsurugi, Fire Emblem: Rekka no Ken, Fire Emblem: Soen no Kiseki/Akatsuki no Megami | Fire Emblem Path of Radiance/Radiant Dawn, Fire Emblem: The Sacred Stones
Genre: Multi
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-10-23
Updated: 2013-08-27
Packaged: 2017-11-16 21:36:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 38
Words: 17,295
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/544080
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Rethira/pseuds/Rethira
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A collection of Fire Emblem short stories/drabbles/flash fiction/whatever. Will include gen, M/M, M/F, F/F as well as crossovers, AUs and any number of self indulgent ships.</p><p>Chapters 1 through 28 have all been previously posted on my LJ (also they're posted in very nearly completely reverse order to when I wrote them, so if the quality gets worse the longer you read then that'll be why.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. And The Sun Rises (Elphin/Percival/Klein, G)

**Author's Note:**

> This was written for [Raphiael](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Raphiael/pseuds/Raphiael) for the prompt "golden."

Sometimes, Elphin will wake when they do and follow them outside. They must know he does so, even if he hangs back to merely watch. They are both generals, so it is hardly unusual for servants to see them together, even this early in the morning. Even on the rare occasions when Elphin does join them, no-one comments. The King must converse with his military leaders after all.

But this morning, Percival and Klein rise early and disappear from Elphin’s chambers before the sun has truly risen. It’s a crisp winter day, nearing the solstice, and Elphin has given the servants leave to be somewhat lax, for this week is full of celebrations. The two must know they do not have to leave – although both are fond of murmuring about propriety when the mood takes them – and yet they have. So Elphin follows, even though the floor is cold on his bare feet and they would both be quite alarmed to see him out of bed this early.

He finds them out in the duelling court. They aren’t fighting, simply talking together. Percival looks unusually animated, something Elphin doesn’t doubt the court as a whole would find quite shocking. Klein is somewhat more subdued, and his face bears a fond, gentle smile. For a brief moment, Elphin wishes he was with them too, but he dismisses the thought. When he is near, they focus on him, censoring themselves and being so very careful – all it would take was a wayward touch, and Percival could not bear the idea of the court filled with rumours of their king’s proclivities.

When Klein and Percival are simply with each other, they relax. Even a blind man could tell what they were to each other – Elphin snorts inelegantly at the thought. He imagines that one or perhaps both of them know he is present; he is hardly making and effort to hide himself, and he has swathed himself in one of the big, heavy, fur lined cloaks Percival tends to ‘accidentally’ leave in Elphin’s chambers. That alone would presumably give enough of the court food for thought, but Elphin cannot bring himself to care.

Klein smiles at Percival again, reaching up to just touch his face – Percival is like a cat, and will lean into touches when they’re given. His fingers settle on the curve of Percival’s jaw, and he reaches up to just brush his lips over Percival’s. It’s so sweet it makes Elphin’s heart ache – they may have this complex relationship between them, but he feels like he’s intruding.

He turns away, tugging the cloak tighter around him and hurries back to his chambers.


	2. The Reigning Prince (Kurthnaga, G)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Written for Emma, for the prompt "serenity."

Kurthnaga only has a handful of memories of his family as a whole – barring his mother of course; she had died giving him life, so he mourned her in a distant, thankful way, rather than the painful, heart clenching manner he mourned his father and brother.

He has the least memories of his sister, prior to her leaving. Almedha was fond of butting heads with their father, arguing over the littlest things, or perhaps they were big things and Kurthnaga simply didn’t know. He recalls an argument that ended in her transforming in a huff; she’d been yelling, incensed, about the fact that _he’d_ left, and Deghinsea had simply let him.

“... out into the world with nothing to even protect him, Father, what were you thinking?” she had been saying. Father had been about to reply, but Kurthnaga had toppled over on his still unsteady legs, and that had been the end of the argument. Almedha had glared at him, but in the end had simply stormed over to the balcony and thrown herself off. Kurthnaga remembers a moment of crippling fear, and then big black wings had snapped up and he’d seen his sister transformed for the first time.

She had calmed down a bit as he’d grown, but had still been ‘wild’ by Goldoan standards. Kurthnaga loved her though, and he could forgive her any faults she had, even though she was a fleeting presence in his life. She came and went like a gust of wind, stopping by to see her darling baby brother and then leaving before he got the chance to say goodbye.

Rajaion was a steadier presence. He had been there for almost all of Kurthnaga’s life; he can remember the good times and the bad times with Rajaion, the little bits and pieces that made them _family_. Rajaion had read him bedtime stories, and carved his food. He’d been there when Kurthnaga had transformed for the first time, and given him breathing lessons. Rajaion had played with him when he wasn’t busy, and teased him with stories from his childhood.

Kurthnaga could remember the day Rajaion left. Almedha had already disappeared, years ago, and Kurthnaga had shuttered his heart to that wound. It was almost easier with her; though he loved his sister dearly, she had preferred exploration and adventure to taking over the role of their lost mother, and Kurthnaga couldn’t blame her for that.

But Rajaion... Rajaion leaving hurt. He’d promised to come back. He’d promised he’d return. He’d promised Kurthnaga and Ena and Gareth and Nasir, even though Father told him that if he left he wouldn’t be allowed back home. And Kurthnaga wondered if maybe Father had told Almedha the same thing, told her to stop and calm down and build a family all her own, and she hadn’t wanted to, not then. Maybe Father had told that if she didn’t do what he said, she wouldn’t be allowed home either; the thought makes his heart ache and he wants to _ask_ \- but he’s the _good_ son now.

Rajaion doesn’t come back. The years stretch out ahead of him and Kurthnaga sometimes thinks about their little family, and how broken it all is.

Late at night, he thinks that if he wasn’t here none of this would have happened. The Mother he’d never known would have kept them all together, he thinks. She wouldn’t have let Almedha leave alone, and she wouldn’t have let Father chase Rajaion away just for wanting to help Almedha. She wouldn’t have let Father do a lot of things, and it seems to Kurthnaga, that perhaps the exchange of her for him wasn’t worth it.

Rajaion wouldn’t like him thinking those sort of things. He would hug Kurthnaga close and tell him stories about Mother, how gentle and kind she was, and how she loved Kurthnaga with all her heart and wanted the whole world to love him too.

Kurthnaga buries himself in those happier days; when Rajaion does, at last, return, Kurthnaga cries for those happy times, for he fears they will never return.


	3. Into the Desert (Stefan, G)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Written for [queenlua](http://archiveofourown.org/users/queenlua/pseuds/queenlua) for the prompt "false."

After a time, the lies turn bitter in his mouth. He tells the people he meets he is from _here_ and he is going _there_ , or that he is returning home, or that he never knew his family. If he stays for too long in one place, he must say he is already promised to another, or he declines interest. He tells them stories from long ago, about heroes they can only imagine, and he pretends he heard these stories from his grandfather. He claims he was taught the sword by his father, or by his grandfather, or he learnt it long ago from a traveller.

When they turn on laguz, he must too, and hurl down abuse at those he would rather call brother.

He piles lies upon lies, and when the lies become too much he simply cuts them loose, and slips away in the night. He leaves village after village wondering at his disappearance, wondering at the stranger who spent so long with them before disappearing without a word. And then he moves onto the next, cursing his _need_ to be near people. It would be so much easier to just take to the road and never settle, but the so-called tainted blood that runs through his veins demands he stop, demands he build a family and a home.

But the lies are too much. The endless falsehoods are beyond him, so he lifts his hair and shows his Brand and _dares_ them to comment, to throw stones, to curse him for being what he is.

When they do it is almost a relief. Now the lies can stop. He can say that he has a reason for avoiding beorc settlements, and he can point at the scars to prove it. He can pass through and say to himself, _this_ is why I don’t stay. _This_ is why I come and go like the wind.

But even that isn’t enough. His blood calls for a home, so he turns away from the populated places, and he travels to the desert, and along the way he picks up any others like himself he finds. There are more than enough – for all the curses the beorc rain down upon the laguz, they get their children upon them readily enough. He calls out for his _true_ family, and he leads them into the sand and the dust and he says _here_.

_This place is ours. If the beorc come and try to chase us from it, we will not let them. All our lives have been spent in fear, hated and despised by beorc, and ignored by laguz. This will be_ our _home, where none will have to hide themselves._

And for a time, the lies end.


	4. Memento Mori (Ephraim(/Lyon), PG-13/R)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Written for [Raphiael](http://archiveofourown.org/users/raphiael/pseuds/raphiael) for the prompt "Ephraim, dying."

He dies on the battlefield, an axe cleaving through armour, flesh and bone alike. He lasts a handful of seconds, but dies mercifully quick.

He dies in his bed, tired and ill. The disease has riddled his body, and left him a shell of the man he used to be. He lasts months, healers from all of Magvel summoned to save him, and when he dies it is a relief.

He dies in Renais Castle, suddenly felled by a silent assassin. He stares up into cold eyes as he chokes on his own blood, and his last breath is heard by no-one.

He dies in an accident, flying from his horse when it stumbles. The horse dies too; both their necks crack as they hit the ground. He barely even registers that he’s dying.

He dies alone, surrounded by monsters. A revenant’s claws have torn him open from shoulder to thigh. Mauthe doogs circle restlessly around him, occasionally darting close to snap at him. He bleeds out on the forest floor.

He dies protecting his sister, taking the blow that was meant for her. She screams as he falls, but she doesn’t falter, and he’s so very proud of her.

He dies young, of a malady no-one can name. He calls it heartbreak in the safety of his own mind, and tells his sister he’s sorry a hundred, thousand times.

He dies a king, worn by the long years of holding a throne he’d never wanted. The people mourn him, and talk of the passing of the golden age.

He dies pathetically, slipping on some stairs. He spends an hour, perhaps two, contemplating his death while his ruptured organs kill him from the inside.

He dies a martyr, head still held high. He meets death with eyes closed and breath steady, and his body decorates the castle he called home.

He dies at the hands of the one he loves, and he does not regret it. He murmurs sorry as the magic strips the life from him, and maybe he imagines the broken sob in his dying moments, but maybe he doesn’t.


	5. the journey home (Tibarn, G)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Written for [queenlua](http://archiveofourown.org/users/queenlua/pseuds/queenlua) for the prompt "Tibarn, after the battle."

They go home, eventually. First, they must recover, and the Empress must consolidate her power. The people of Begnion may have little functional respect for the laguz, but when they see the rulers of every nation on Tellius backing Sanaki, there can be no doubt as to who should rule. That the leaders of the senate are _gone_ also leaves them little recourse, and after a few days of tense anticipation, Sanaki is once again ensconced as the Empress of Begnion.

And by then, Tibarn and his hawks are recovered. All the armies can return home, although for Phoenicis, it is a battered home. The old, the women and the children have buried their dead such as they are able, but there are so _few_. The streets are all but deserted, and Phoenicis feels like a shadow of the home it once was.

It is Reyson who starts it. He talks to them, weaves tales of Serenes that delight and impress the people. He fills them with hope, and when Tibarn mentions their plan to join all three bird tribes into one, it is met with approval. There are some who are loath to leave their homes, and Tibarn will not force them, but he thinks a new and different home is better than this barren and empty one.

They choose a date, and on that day, the sky is filled with wing beats. Hawk and raven fly together, if warily, and they land in the lush green forest that was the herons’ ancestral home. The Empress is there to meet them, along with Rafiel and Leanne, and she cedes the territory to Tibarn with great formality for one so young.

Tibarn suspects it won’t feel like home for a great many years, but he hopes.


	6. The Child That Could Have Been His (Zihark, G)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Written for [queenlua](http://archiveofourown.org/users/queenlua/pseuds/queenlua).

He’s in a village one day, passing through on a job. He’s considering stopping to rest; his horse is tired from the road, and there are bandits about after all. Safer to stay in a village than camp out, even if he is the obvious stranger in their midst. Small villages like this are rarely welcoming, too suspicious of wanderers for Zihark to feel entirely safe.

He’s looking for the inn when he sees her – she’s tiny, and wearing filthy, ragged clothes. She’s crouched in the dark shadows between two houses, and she’s glancing around furtively. She’s still not well hidden enough – one of the villagers sees her and spits at her, kicking a lose pebble in her direction. She jumps a little, and scurries backwards.

She can’t be more than seven years old.

Zihark walks over to her hideaway, leading his horse, and peers along it. She’s crouched at the far end, staring back at him with wide, scared eyes. Her clothes have slipped a bit, and Zihark can see the unmistakeable stark lines of a Brand.

The girl hisses at him, and tries to slip back, further into the darkness, but she’s trapped in a dead end.

“Shhh,” Zihark says. “It’s all right. Come here. I won’t hurt you.”

The girl doesn’t react, save for flinching when he speaks. She hunches herself over, making herself even smaller than she already is. It breaks Zihark’s heart a little.

“Are you hungry?” he asks, keeping his voice low and calm. He turns to his horse and opens the saddlebags, bringing out bread and cheese. The girl hasn’t moved when he turns back, but her eyes focus on the food. Zihark offers it to her, and after a few tense moments, she darts forwards and grabs it before retreating back. She eats like she hasn’t had food in weeks. “There,” Zihark murmurs. “If you get hungry again, come and find me. I’ll be around for the next day or so.”

The girl stares at him until he moves away.

When Zihark finally leaves the village, she’s riding behind him, clinging to his back and burying her face in his clothes.


	7. It's Raining On My Face (Ike, G)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Written for Emma.

Before they leave, Ike goes back to his father’s grave. There’s an old bunch of flowers, withered and dry, and Ike can’t think who might have left it there. Urvan no longer marks the grave – Ike left it with Titania, and told her to look after it for him – but there’s a crude cairn there instead. Someone obviously keeps rebuilding it; there are enough wild animals in a forest like this that a cairn would be knocked over soon enough. Besides, there are a few loose stones here and there. Ike gathers them up and replaces them haphazardly.

The sun’s going down by the time Ike finishes, and he finds himself at a loss. He’d come because it didn’t seem right, leaving without saying goodbye. He’d even asked Caineghis about his mother’s grave, but that old village had long since been swallowed by the forest. He’d picked through the ruins himself, but if his mother’s grave had had a marker, he hadn’t been able to find it. Still, he’d said goodbye to her, and apologised for leaving Mist – and if he changed his mind about leaving, it would be because of Mist. Others had tried to sway his decision, but it’d only been Mist who’d made him come even close to wavering.

“I’m going,” Ike says. His voice seems too loud in the forest. “I’m sorry.” He doesn’t know why he apologises. His father can’t know why. “I’m leaving Mist behind,” he explains. “I know I promised. I promised to never lose anyone else. But I can’t ask her to come with me, and I can’t stay here. It’s. It’s difficult, Father. There are so many people, all the time. We’re all so tired, and.”

For a moment, he falls silent. Then Ike takes a deep breath and continues.

“We can’t save everyone. But everyone expects me to. Last week I watched a little girl die because we weren’t fast enough, and then I had to tell her parents that we’d failed. And they didn’t do _anything_. They didn’t blame me and it was like, like they didn’t _care_ because it was _me_ and I’d brought her body back myself and they thought I’d done my _best_.” Ike’s voice cracks, and he sounds bitter to his own ears.

Ike takes another deep breath. “So, I’m going. I guess this is goodbye. I hope. I hope someone comes to visit you. If you see her... tell Mist I’m sorry.”

Ike hefts Ettard and, with one final glance behind, leaves his father’s grave for the last time.


	8. Fire to the Wind (Ismaire, G)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Written for Morgan.

There is no earth in Jehanna. There are no safe places, no eternal, unmoving resting places for their dead. There is just the sand, and the sand is always shifting. So their dead are entrusted to the wind instead; Ismaire burns her husband as the sun sets over the dunes. Joshua clings to her leg, and blinks slowly at the fire. He’s done his crying already, but he still shakes and it has nothing to do with the chill sweeping across the desert.

Carlyle kneels down beside him, and takes Joshua’s little hand in his. He murmurs soothing words to him, and as the fire burns brighter the drums start. Ismaire joins the dancers; she’s already wearing the traditional garb and her hair has been braided for this occasion. Each of the other dancers takes their place – Joshua makes an aborted noise at her absence, but Carlyle calms him once again, doubtlessly explaining the ancient traditions.

Their dance is to call the wind, and the drums are to set its rhythm. She dances as she has never danced before, spinning and sweeping low to the sand, faster and faster. As the wind picks up a chant starts, thanking it, and the fire flares. She sees Joshua – he’s a splash of bright red in the darkness – and he’s crying again, but he’s dancing too, as best he can.

She dances until the fire burns down, and she calls for Joshua to throw the first handful of sand to cool it.

And when the fire burns no longer, and the wind is fast and strong on the high dunes, Ismaire throws her husband’s ashes and finally says goodbye.


	9. With Sword Aloft (Tethys, Marisa, G)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Written for [Xirysa](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Xirysa/pseuds/Xirysa).

Sometimes, in the cool nights of the desert, when she has finished working and has returned to Gerik and the others, Tethys gets to watch Marisa practice. She fights differently to Gerik, for all they both use swords. Her footsteps are light, where his are solid. Her movements are fluid, and her sword seems to cut the very air itself, where Gerik’s tell of the sword’s weight and the burn of his muscles. Both are beautiful in their ways, and to Tethys’ eyes, both are dances of their own.

But it is Marisa that Tethys’ eyes seek, and she can see the dancer’s movements in the sweep and glide of Marisa across the sand, in the duck and the dodge and in the flourish of the sword. Tethys can see the way she herself might move across the battlefield, sword in hand, and how she might fight just as Marisa does. She can see herself in Marisa’s dance, and in those moments, Tethys wonders.

But that is a silly thing to wonder about. The sword would bring her little joy, where dancing brings her so much.

Still, she wonders. She never saw their Queen, but rumour had it that Queen Ismaire was both dancer and master of the sword. Such is Jehanna, Tethys thinks, and then she joins Marisa on the cooling sands and they dance together.


	10. Soft Paw Steps Across Your Heart (Knoll(/Lyon), G)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Written for [Raphiael](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Raphiael/pseuds/Raphiael) for the prompt "Knoll, shatter."

Caer Pelyn was a quiet place. This high in the mountains there were fewer birds and other animals; the only creatures Knoll saw regularly were the goats. Grandmother said that they were the only animals truly at home here, and Knoll was inclined to believe her. He’d woken up on many mornings to see a small herd of them, picking their way across faces of rock nothing else could hope to scale. The goats didn’t make much noise either. Only the skittering of hooves over rock and the occasional slide of unstable gravel ever betrayed them. Knoll had yet to see one fall; even when a small outcropping had begun to crumble beneath a goat, the goat had still leapt to safety.

But that morning, a soft, insistent noise woke Knoll. The sun was not yet up, and Knoll had few visitors anyway. He took a Flux tome with him to the door anyway, but it quickly became apparent that there was no need for it.

There was a kitten sitting before his door, mewing piteously. It peered up at him, and made an almost enquiring mew.

“A kitten?” Knoll asked himself, but he knelt down anyway and carefully reached out to it. The kitten sniffed his fingers before leaning into his hand, its mews giving way to a sweet purr. Knoll sighed and picked the kitten up – it only purred louder – and carried it inside. The kitten was cold, but that was to be expected, so Knoll wrapped it in a blanket and went back to bed. “I’ll decide what to do with you in the morning,” Knoll murmured, yawning.

It only took the kitten three seconds to untangle itself from the blanket and hop up onto the bed, where it happily ensconced itself against Knoll’s chest.

~

The children from Caer Pelyn thought Lyon was a great novelty, and came to see Knoll more than they ever had before. Cats and dogs – indeed, most domesticated animals – were rare in the small village, and no-one really had an answer for where Lyon had come from. Given that Knoll lived deeper in the mountains than almost anyone else, there really weren’t many places he could have come from. But none of the few cats in Caer Pelyn had had a litter around the time Lyon turned up, and there weren’t any other villages near Knoll’s home, so all anyone could say was that there must have been a cat, and Lyon had probably gotten lost and found his way to Knoll’s house.

Grandmother smiled and her eyes twinkled when she said that, so Knoll wasn’t entirely sure if he believed her or not. Either way, Lyon lived with him now. He was an affectionate cat, although somewhat jumpy and easily frightened by crowds. Lyon always seemed happiest when he was curled up on Knoll’s lap, or on Knoll’s bed. Some days Lyon would watch attentively as Knoll read his spell books, and painstakingly wrote new Flux or Luna tomes. Lyon never knocked the precious ink needed to write the tomes, or messed around with the valuable spell paper. He watched and looked fascinated; when Saleh came and showed Knoll how to write a far easier Fire tome, Lyon looked even more spellbound, and deigned to sit on Saleh’s lap and purr for him.

But mostly Lyon followed Knoll, and slept, and did cat things.

~

“I named you for my Prince,” Knoll told Lyon. Lyon stared up at him, blinking his blue eyes slowly. “You don’t look like him, Lyon, no need to worry,” Knoll continued. Lyon settled down again, purring loudly, and half-heartedly washing a grey paw. “I miss him,” Knoll confessed.

Lyon didn’t do anything except purr louder.

~

Time slipped away from Knoll. Caer Pelyn was such an ageless place that it was easy to forget; the only marking of time was the children growing older and taking over their parents’ responsibilities, and the shifting migration of the goats. Occasionally, travellers would pass through, but their visitations were few and far between, and Knoll rarely saw them.

He was not happy, but he was, perhaps, content. He had a home, and he had his books, and he had his cat. There was nothing else he would ask for.

But all things come to an end.

~

Near twenty years after Lyon arrived on Knoll’s doorstep as a mewling kitten, Knoll is awakened by him mewling again. But this time, Lyon is mewling from inside the house, and pawing at the door to leave. Knoll knows and he wants to bolt the door and hold Lyon to his chest and beg him, _beg him_ not to go.

But instead, he takes a shuddering breath and opens the door.

Lyon meows and rubs his head against Knoll’s leg before disappearing out into the fog.

He looks back when he’s just on the edge of Knoll’s sight, and his meow sounds like _goodbye_.


	11. The Snow Dragon (Crossover; Elphin(/Percival), Kain/Cecil, G)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Written for Raphiael for the prompt "Kain and Elphin, letting go."

The bard looks too much like Edward for Kain’s liking. He stirs up old memories, things Kain would rather forget. Even so, Kain finds himself watching. The bard walks through the tavern confidently, eyes closed, and when he bumps into someone, he murmurs an apology and hurries on. Some of the patrons shift obligingly for him, and when the bard finally takes his seat, he rests his lyre reverently on his knee and sings a soft and beautiful song that has half the bar pausing with their drinks halfway to their lips.

It’s a love song – unusual fare for this particular bar, Kain feels. It’s not the type of tavern that has brawls, and the drunks are, by and large, melancholy. It was called _The Snow Dragon_ , and that was mostly why Kain had started coming here. It was pleasant enough in its way; clean glasses, only slightly watered ale, a barkeep who kept his own counsel and listened only if invited to. It was populated almost entirely by grown men, and only made enough business to need one waitress. Nevertheless, Kain liked coming there, if only for the cheap ale and the lack of chatter.

There have been other entertainers. A few bards, a dancer and magic folk. This is the first time Kain’s seen this particular bard, and definitely the first time he’s heard any song like this. But despite the incongruity, everyone in the tavern is slowly turning to watch the bard, and any small conversations have abruptly ceased.

It’s a love song; a desperate, aching love song, where no-one is happy and everyone ends up alone and all Kain can think of is Cecil. The song comes to an end, and the bard pauses to catch his breath, before starting into another. This one is of children, running and playing and living life to the fullest, never knowing that in but a scant few years their lives will be turned upside down – and it’s Cecil and Rosa in Kain’s mind this time, back before they became so caught up in each other- Kain’s breath catches, and the song ends.

The bard stands, and bows, and he slips from the stage. Everyone’s conversations resume, and they all look away from the bard. But Kain can’t, and he finds himself standing and moving over to him. The bard stops and turns around, meeting Kain’s enquiring gaze with sightless eyes.

“May I help you?” the bard asks, and Kain is momentarily at a loss for words.

“Yes,” he says, after a too long pause. “Will you sit with me?”

The bard tilts his head, and smiles. “It would be an honour,” he says.

Kain buys him a drink, and tries to ignore the incongruity of such delicate fingers wrapped around a pint glass. They sit in awkward silence for a time, both drinking and collecting their thoughts.

“What do you call your songs?” Kain asks eventually, just to break the silence.

The bard smiles, and doesn’t turn to look at Kain. “The first is ‘Letting Go,’ and the second is ‘Percival.’”

There’s little enough Kain can say to that. “Forgive me,” he begins instead. “My name is Kain.”

The bard’s lips quirk at that, and he turns to face Kain. “And are you a traitor?” he asks.

Kain’s silence is all the reply the bard needs.

“No matter,” the bard continues. “I go by Elphin.”

“Thank you,” Kain says. “For the songs. I thought. They were… beautiful.” Kain’s voice cracks as he says it, and he’s not fool enough to think that Elphin doesn’t notice.

“Yes,” Elphin agrees. “They were.” It’s almost like he’s agreeing with Kain about Cecil and Rosa, like Elphin knows Kain isn’t talking so much about the songs as who they remind him of.

“Will you sing them again?” Kain asks – and he tries not to sound so forlorn, tries not to sound like his heart is as broken as it _is_ , but he knows how futile an endeavour that is.

“Perhaps,” Elphin murmurs. “Perhaps.”


	12. Deathwish, Without a Prayer (Eirika, Tana, Ephraim, PG-ish)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Written for Morgan for the prompt "Tana and Eirika, lending an ear." Unfortunately, Ephraim kind of commandeered it.

Ephraim is calm and quiet. He carries himself with a maturity and dignity that he hadn’t before the war. Even when she’d found him at Renvall, there had been a lightness to his step. He’d been carefree, caught up in the excitement of adventure. In the months they’d been apart, some of that had lessened, and he’d found a certain gravitas that was so very like Father that it almost hurt.

But he was never like this.

Now, Ephraim tends to stare into the middle distance all too often, and he’s getting thinner and more and more ragged. The war had taken their toll on all of them, but this aftermath they have now… it’s worse. There are monster incursions every day, and they can go days between finding ragged settlements. Even when they do find life, the people are dying. Maybe they have a handful of strong warriors who have kept them safe, but the old and weak cannot survive this indefinitely. Their army goes through strange phases; battle has stripped them of so many, but near every settlement brings them new troops.

Staying on the move, and armed, is safer than staying in one place. Even the great castles are no longer safe. For a while, they had held Rausten Court. But eventually, the Maelduin and Wights had broken their ranks, and the Draco Zombies had fallen upon them and Rausten had fallen before the day was out.

They’d had victories since, but what good was winning the battles when you were losing the war? What good was winning skirmishes when the war was already _lost_?

Everyone is tired and bitter, but it plagues Eirika to see Ephraim so. She cannot talk to him. He doesn’t hear her, not anymore. Eirika knows why. When she dies – and she will, eventually, she has long since accepted that – he hopes it will not hurt him so. If she was strong enough, she might do the same, but this is a weakness Eirika will happily accept.

“Eirika?” Tana touches Eirika’s arm, and Eirika leans into it.

“Yes, Tana?” she replies, smiling at her gratefully.

“Are you all right? I mean- well, you know what I mean,” Tana says. She guides Eirika to seat, and sits next to her.

“I’ll be fine, Tana. How are you? This… this can’t have been easy for you.” One of their earliest reports had confirmed the fall of Frelia, and the death of King Hayden. Innes and Tana had never had the chance to say goodbye.

Tana glances at the ground, and squeezes Eirika’s hand. “I’m no worse than anyone else,” she murmurs.

Eirika nods, mostly to herself. If she looks up, she’ll probably be able to see Ephraim – he spends a lot of time with his knights and the Grado shaman these days, although Seth is no longer able to fight, and Forde lost an eye two weeks ago. Planning, Ephraim says. Planning for a world where everyone he loves is dead.

“It isn’t fair,” Eirika announces. Tana looks at her questioningly, but Eirika carries on staring at the ground. “It isn’t fair,” she repeats. “Everyone… everyone expects him to be the last.” Her voice cracks. “Everyone expects Ephraim to be the last of us alive, and it isn’t _fair_.”

“Oh, Eirika,” Tana says, gently, pulling Eirika into a hug.

“We came into this world together,” Eirika hiccups, clutching at Tana desperately. Her face is wet, and Eirika realises belatedly that she’s sobbing, great heaving sobs. “We came into this world barely minutes apart, but everyone expects us to die apart.” The rest of what Eirika wants to say is lost to her sobs, but she knows that Tana hears it loud and clear.

_I’ll die with him, or I shall not die at all._


	13. Child-King and Feathers (Tibarn/Pelleas, G)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Written for Raphiael for the prompt "Tibarn/Pelleas, lifespan angst."

Feathers make remarkably good insulators. Not as good as fur of course, but Ranulf has already been employed as heating by Amy and the various women who have gone to coo over her, including Lady Al- Mother. Ranulf hadn’t protested in the slightest – as Pelleas was given to believe, he’d actually been quite thrilled. Most of the men had laughed uproariously at that, and they’d all started to bunk up together. Royalty, it seemed, was bedding down in one tent (with the exception of Queen Elincia, who had taken to the women’s tent with Lucia). Thus, Pelleas and Tibarn, alone for the moment.

Tibarn had stretched one of his wings out, curving it over Pelleas’ shoulders, and even through his thick robes, Pelleas could feel the warmth from it. King Tibarn didn’t say anything as Pelleas wriggled back to lean into it, and Pelleas would surely have expired if he’d even mentioned it. It was nice though, and at least the recriminations had stopped; no more useless Pelleas, cowering behind a slip of a girl and her band of merry children. Now at least he was fighting. Only Mother had a problem with that. Everyone else tended to like it, as long as he didn’t slow them down.

“You’re thinking awfully hard over there,” Tibarn says, breaking the silence. “Careful you don’t break yourself.”

For a moment, Pelleas fumbles. He’s absolutely sure he’s gone bright red and hopes that the Bird Tribes’ poor night vision is in fact just as poor as he’s been told.

“Th-thank you for your concern,” Pelleas replies.

Tibarn snorts, and his wing curves tighter to Pelleas’ shoulders – the feathers tickle at the back of his neck. “You did well today. I’d say it must have been hard, fighting that… _man_ but….”

Pelleas takes a deep breath and shudders as he releases it. “Knowing what he’s done made it easier,” he replies. “Knowing that he trapped me into _this_ -” Pelleas gestures to his arm, where the blood pact marks his skin, taints it like his spirit charm never has – “He wasn’t- I wouldn’t- I thought you would have liked to kill him.”

Tibarn makes a non-committal noise, and his wing shifts again, the feathers just brushing Pelleas’ cheek now and tugging Pelleas closer to Tibarn. It’s definitely warmer this close to the Hawk King. Pelleas hopes he’s not blushing too much; being cradled by Tibarn’s wing seemed far too intimate a touch-

“He dragged you into all this,” Tibarn says. “He may have taken laguz, good strong men and women, and warped them beyond imagination- but you were just in the wrong place at the wrong time, and now look at you. Laguz – we expect this from humans like _him_. But you’re just a child, a child made king.”

Pelleas feels he should be offended – he’s not a very good king, he’ll admit, but he’s _trying_. “I- I’m not completely useless,” he replies. “I _am_ a spirit charmer.”

Tibarn looks honestly surprised at that, and twists to get a better look at Pelleas, his wing pushing Pelleas ever nearer. “That explains a lot.” For a moment, Tibarn looks somewhat awkward. “How long?”

“Several years,” Pelleas replies.

“And how long do you have left?”

Pelleas stares up at Tibarn. Tibarn’s wing has almost completely curved around him now, feathers brushing his hand and face and neck. Tibarn’s eyes are frighteningly intense.

“A while,” Pelleas manages to say.

“Hmmm.”

For a time, they simply look at each other. And then Tibarn breaks the silence.

“In a way we’re not so different.”

“Oh?” Pelleas tries to make it sound light. He fails.

“The people we love will outlive us.”

Pelleas’ breath is coming too harshly for him to truly deny that. Tibarn’s hand comes up to cup his chin, big, warm fingers that should probably scare Pelleas but don’t.

“You’re like the herons, Child King. Self-sacrificing and desperate to protect the people you love,” Tibarn murmurs. His thumb catches on Pelleas’ lips for a fraction of a second-

And Pelleas looks away, unable to hold the moment. Tibarn makes a noise – a smug noise, if a noise can be smug – and his wing relaxes slightly.

“Go on, get some rest,” Tibarn says. “No telling when you’ll need to be up and fighting.”

Pelleas nods, and tells himself that he is not fleeing.

He’s not fleeing at all.


	14. Wake For This Morn (Crossover; Elphin/Percival, PG-ish for implications)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Written for Raphiael for the prompt "Vampire!Elphin and Belmont!Percival."

Elphin follows the Belmont’s progress through the castle with some interest. He’s strong, of course, but then all Belmonts are strong. Heavier on his feet than some Belmonts Elphin’s known, but that only seems to be an advantage for this Belmont; he stands his ground when other Belmonts would have leapt clear, and when he does jump up high, it only adds more force to the strike of his sword. Using a sword at all is a strange thing for a Belmont; they tend to simply use their prized Vampire Killer, and a variety of minor blessed weapons, instead of anything so large.

This is indeed a curious Belmont, and one Elphin cannot wait to finally meet. He’s full of anticipation as the Belmont climbs higher and higher, until he finally reaches Elphin’s tower. The door creaks open, and there’s a cautious footstep inside – obviously expecting some great monster to be lurking this deep in the castle – and Elphin turns to face the door and smiles. The Belmont steps closer still, his stance shifting as he readies his weapon.

“There’s no need for that, Sir Belmont,” Elphin says. There’s a pause and the Belmont takes a few steps back. “I assure you, I mean you no harm,” Elphin continues. “As you can no doubt see, I am a prisoner here.”

“Why?” the Belmont asks. His voice is pitched low, and rough from disuse.

“The current custodian believes that my blood will revive Dracula,” Elphin replies. “To that extent, I am bound here until such a time as the ritual is ready.”

“There were… a lot of guards,” the Belmont murmurs. “And why _your_ blood?”

Elphin smiles again. “I am quite a force in my own right, Sir Belmont. Unfortunately, they saw fit to rob me of anything I might use to leave, including, as you’ve no doubt surmised, my sight.”

The Belmont’s breath catches in his throat. “I can free you,” he says. He lowers his sword, and walks towards Elphin. The floorboards creak ominously as he approaches, and then there’s a lovely warm hand on Elphin’s arm. Examining the restraints, no doubt. The Belmont pulls on them experimentally, and Elphin can just imagine the frown on his face.

“They are warded, Sir Belmont,” Elphin says. “If they were all that simple to break, I would have done it long ago.”

The Belmont doesn’t reply, and inside seems to rummage in his clothes for something. After a short while, he retrieves whatever it was he was looking for, and sets about picking the lock. Elphin is just about to sigh at the foolishness of Belmonts when there’s a satisfying click and his wrist is finally free. A moment later, his other wrist follows, and then it’s simply a matter of the Belmont doing the same to the ones around his ankles and then Elphin is finally, _finally_ free.

“I know a safe place you can stay,” the Belmont murmurs. He’s taller than Elphin expected, and reassuringly solid and warm.

“I can protect myself now, Sir Belmont. Did you, by any chance, happen to see a lyre anywhere?” Elphin asks, taking a few moments to familiarise himself with being able to walk again.

“Oh,” the Belmont says, and then something cool and familiar and perfect is being pressed into Elphin’s hands. “I found it. Are you sure you’ll be safe by yourself?”

“Sir Belmont, perhaps we should go outside and see just how safe I’ll be,” Elphin replies, fingers dancing over the strings of his lyre.

Several dead monsters later, the Belmont is forced to agree that Elphin can more than take care of himself.

“I think I will accompany you,” Elphin says. “But first- does my rescuer have a name?”

“Percival. Percival Belmont.” He stands ready, glancing around for any more enemies.

“I go by Elphin.” It’s a credit to Percival that he doesn’t even flinch at that, although he must know Elphin’s history.

“Shall we?” Percival asks instead, climbing up a wall. When he reaches the top, he stops, and Elphin imagines he’s offering a hand.

Elphin takes it with a smile.


	15. Legacy (Soren, Kurthnaga, G)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Written for Emma for the prompt "Kurthnaga and Soren, tactical advisory."

Soren’s never far from his books. Kurthnaga almost wants to declare the library Soren’s, but that would hardly be fair to all the scholars. Instead, he simply has Soren’s chambers near the library, so Soren can always access his beloved books.

Even now, with war once again on the horizon, Soren has a huge mountain of books beside him. Of course, they are currently less important; the maps strewn across the table take precedent. Soren has markers and notes and all variety of things, and today, the scholars are giving him a wider berth than usual.

The long centuries have not dulled Soren’s mind, after all.

He barely glances up when Kurthnaga sits tentatively opposite him. Instead, Soren grumbles something and moves a blue marker halfway across Begnion.

“Soren?” Kurthnaga asks, and Soren looks up at him. It’s always something of a surprise to see how closely Soren sometimes resembles Rajaion. Now, in this light, Kurthnaga feels very young and staring up at his tall older brother – but then Soren shifts and he’s just Soren again.

“What?” Soren snaps. He looks back to his maps and slides a red marker slightly further into the desert.

“The army is ready,” Kurthnaga replies. “Do you have orders for them?”

Soren gives him a withering look then. “Yes. If we face invasion, it will come through the Kauku Caves. Station men above and around the entrance, and if they should see an army coming-” Soren pauses and a somewhat vicious look crosses his face. “If they should see an army coming, tell them to collapse the entrance.”

Kurthnaga nods, slowly. He is still not fond of violence – no dragon truly is – but this is war, and Goldoa must defend its borders.

“Garrison troops here,” Soren continues, tapping the map at the southernmost point of their border with Gallia. “The mountains change into Gallian lands there, before turning to plains again. When the Kauku Caves fail, attack may come from there.”

“And what of the sea?” Kurthnaga asks. “We have little control over it.”

“There are reefs all along the coast,” Soren replies tersely. “Post lookouts and small forces along the coastline. Doubtlessly there will be fools who think to take Goldoa from the sea, but a large scale invasion would never work. Only keep enough men there to repel visitors.”

Kurthnaga smiles. Soren may be planning a war all by himself, but it’s good to see him so in his element.

“We wouldn’t be able to do this without you,” Kurthnaga says.

Soren snorts and rolls his eyes dismissively. “You would have found a way.”

“A much bloodier way,” Kurthnaga says.

Soren pauses, and stares at his maps. “I’m not doing this for _you_ ,” he murmurs.

“I know.” Kurthnaga bows slightly to him, and turns to relay General Soren’s orders.


	16. Hide and Seek (Volug, Micaiah, G)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Written for Queenlua for the prompt "Volug and Micaiah, tracking/searching for something/someone."

The thing about Volug is that he doesn’t really seem to care much. He spends most of his time lazing around the castle half-shifted, only really shifting when he’s hungry, and even then, he seems fully able to get his own food. The kitchen staff had only been afraid of him for a week at most, before he’d caught several rats that had been getting into the stores. Now they tend to give him prime cuts of meat, and stop to give him a scratch behind his ears.

The whispers of _sub-human_ have all but left the castle. There are a few here and there, but Micaiah rarely hears them – and since she rules with her Brand displayed for all the world to see, perhaps that is no small coincidence. Micaiah knows that there had been many who doubted her, who thought that her Brand would turn Daein against her.

Daein had proved them wrong, and Micaiah couldn’t be more proud.

Volug blinks up at Micaiah sleepily and tilts his head. Some people have assumed he was a dog at first glance, albeit a particularly large one. Volug doesn’t seem to particularly care; sometimes, when Princess Leanne visits, he will sit with her and they will talk happily enough in the Ancient Tongue, so rapidly that even those few beorc who are fluent have trouble keeping up. Their conversations always devolve into giggles at some point, and whoever is chaperoning Princess Leanne this time tends to get a pained look on their face.

“Alyssa’s gone missing,” Micaiah tells him. Volug nods and gets to his feet. “Sothe thinks she’s trying to play hide-and-seek.”

Volug barks happily and sets off, nose to the ground and ears pricked.

One thing that can always be said about Volug; he’s never averse to tracking down princesses who are late for bath time.


	17. Outlander (Rutger, PG)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Written for Xirysa for the prompt "outlandish."

The soldier pauses. Rutgar bares his teeth at the man, almost hoping that they’ll finish him like they have the rest of his clan. But instead the man sheathes his sword, and walks away.

“This area’s clear,” he calls out to his superior officer.

They both know Rutgar’s there. The soldier could have struck him down. The officer, mounted on horseback, can see Rutgar now, standing up and stumbling towards them.

“I’m still here,” Rutgar says. Neither soldier looks at him; the soldier mounts his own horse, and both of them look back at Rutgar.

“Should I get rid of him, sir?” the soldier asks.

“Leave him. He’s of Bern,” the officer spits, and then they both turn their horses and go.

Rutgar snarls as they leave, stepping after them. “Come back,” he says. “Come _back!_ ”

But they ride away, leaving Rutgar standing amongst the ruins of his home and family. His mother, his father, his friends… all dead.

And the only reason Rutgar is alive is because his face is more Bernese than Sacaen.


	18. Rise (Elphin/Percival, G)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Written for Raphiael for the prompt "Elphin and whoever, sunrise." We can revel in my predictability.

“The sun is rising, your majesty,” Percival says softly.

“Thank you, Percival,” Elphin replies. He ascends the stairs as confidently as usual, hearing Percival follow him up. There are few people around this early in the morning, and Elphin could probably do this ritual alone, but Percival dislikes leaving Elphin alone for any length of time, and it is no real chore to let Percival trail behind, ready to catch him should Elphin miss a step. Not that he has. It would not do for a King to trip over stairs.

Elphin pauses at the door. He used to try to open it himself, and although Elphin knows the locks and latches and can undo them, the door is made of solid old oak, so it is Percival who always pushes the door open for him. Elphin murmurs quiet thanks again and goes out onto the tower, his eyes closed.

“How far is it, Percival?” Elphin asks.

“On the horizon, sire,” Percival replies. He waits by the door, but never far enough away that Elphin could fall. Percival will always be there to catch him, Elphin thinks.

He smiles and opens his eyes; the darkness recedes only slightly. Less than even the year before.

“Tell me the colours, Percival,” Elphin murmurs.

“The clouds are lined with pinks and purples, sire,” Percival says. He moves closer, pausing behind Elphin. When he speaks again, his voice trembles. “The light makes your hair more golden than usual.”

Elphin turns around and smiles up to Percival, reaching up to touch Percival’s face. “You are too good to me,” Elphin admits. “Every morning coming up here with me. What if I should send you away, Percival? Would you still come here?”

He can feel Percival nodding, and Percival readying himself to speak; a finger on Percival’s lips halts him.

“And all because I want the sunrise to be the first thing I see, if ever my eyesight should return,” Elphin whispers.

“It will come back,” Percival immediately says.

They both know it won’t.


	19. Honey and Jam (Nino, G)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Written for Xirysa for the prompt "sweet."

Nino doesn’t get sweet things very often. Mother doesn’t really buy her presents – which is okay, because she doesn’t need to – and everyone else is always so busy with everything. She doesn’t complain though, because she doesn’t need treats or presents (they are nice though) and it’s not like anyone else gets surprise honey cakes. It’s not like they get much honey here either, and when they can get some Uncle Jan goes into market _specially_ to get some. Mother gets most of it, but Uncle Jan always sneaks Nino some.

Really, only Uncle Legault and her brothers ever get Nino sweets. Sometimes Uncle Legault will come back from a job and he’ll have a big bag full of treats. He always makes Nino promise not to tell Mother or Ursula, and Nino never breaks it because promises are important. And Uncle Legault gives her all the honey cakes she can eat if she promises not to tell Mother; once, he even gave her some special jam cakes and they were the most wonderful thing Nino had ever tasted.

Lloyd and Linus don’t bring cakes or jam or anything much back as presents; they usually give Nino practical things, like fabric for new clothes. But they always choose the nicest fabric to wear (much better than Mother, but Mother really doesn’t have time to choose fabrics and sew), which is just as good as sweets really. Better, Lloyd says whenever Uncle Legault’s around and Uncle Legault always says that he would choose cakes over socks any day.

Nino can think of a few reasons why socks might be better than cakes, but she has to admit, if she was given the choice between jam cakes and socks, the jam cakes would always win.


	20. Familial Ties (Lucius/Raven, Lugh, Lleu, G)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Written for Xirysa for the prompt "thread."

Lucius saves the fine thread for their special, formal clothes. He has all different colours lined up, and the finest, most delicate thread is high on a shelf, beyond most of the children’s reach. Chad could climb that high if he really wanted, but the thread Lucius uses for mending clothes is of no interest to him. Some of the girls like looking at it, and come asking for some when they want to sew, but most of the children know that what they have shouldn’t be wasted.

Still, Lleu had had a brief fascination with it, shortly after he’d purchased his dark robes. They’d torn very easily, and Lleu had told Lucius to teach him how to fix it. At the time, Lucius hadn’t wondered why; Lleu was an independent child, and very proud of that fact. But it made sense now. He would probably never see him again, Lucius muses. Or perhaps Lleu will be like Raven; dropping in unannounced, giving them a few handfuls of gold and maybe a present or two before slipping away under the cover of darkness. Lugh is upset. He misses his brother more than he is willing to admit, and Lucius has found him sleeping in Lleu’s bed every night since Lleu left. If – or when – Lleu comes back, Lucius hopes Lugh is willing to forgive him.

Lucius feels bad when he looks at the fine, light blue thread. It was an extravagance. He hasn’t had use for it in years; his robes had been sold during a particularly bad winter, and Lucius wears plainer clothes now. But still he keeps the useless thread. It’s too delicate to be of any use when sewing up the children’s clothes, but he can’t bear to sell it either. He should. Every time they are running low on funds, Lucius tells himself to sell the thread. But his hand always falls before he can take it from its perch, and he finds something else, something plainer to give away. There’s a darker thread hidden away up there too – used to sew up Lleu’s new robes once or twice, but before that it had served a different use. Raven has different clothes now, or goes to a seamstress. He hasn’t asked Lucius to mend his shirt or darn his socks in an age.

Lleu and Raven will not have Lucius there to mend their clothes for them. They will not have Lucius there to cook them breakfast, or to wake them up. They will not have all the things Lucius _wants_ to do for them; Raven’s dismissal is an old hurt, a wound long since scarred over, but Lleu. He had been happy here, Lucius had thought. Surely he’d been happier here than he can be elsewhere, alone and cold and barely old enough to look after himself. Lucius remembers when he was that age, and of course their circumstances are different, but Lucius cannot shake the feeling that Lleu will be in danger out there. Perhaps if he had gone with Raven, Lucius would feel better.

But Raven hasn’t come by in months, and Lleu had never been one to wait around.

Lucius takes the light blue thread from the shelf.


	21. Dead Eyes (Ephraim/Lyon, NC-17)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Written for the prompt "zombie."
> 
> **This particular drabble contains (arguably) necrophilia. If that squicks you, please do not read it.**

Lyon’s skin is paler than it ever was before. It’s paler than life allows for. He’s cold too, clammy, and blank. Lyon is like a perfectly made doll, pale skinned and expressionless. But he’s not a doll; he’s dead. A moving corpse, walking and fighting with them. Like the others – Father, the Generals of Grado, Queen Ismaire and a strange thing that looks like King Hayden – he doesn’t heal by himself. They gather by the healer’s tent if they’re injured, and Knoll has suggested that maybe they have rudimentary self preservation instincts, but even Knoll finds them uncanny to be around.

Ephraim can’t stand to be around his father’s copy. He avoids it like the plague, and it doesn’t seem inclined to seek him out, but Lyon is not so accommodating. The corpse trails him around, blank eyes fixed on him. They only ever stray when Eirika is around, but she finds Lyon unnerving and prefers to avoid him. In fact, none of the army is exactly pleased to have them around. They do mostly seem to stick together though, and they don’t sleep, so Ephraim simply herds them into a tent when they’re not fighting and as long as none of them are injured, they all stay there. Apart from Lyon, but short of tying him to a tree, Ephraim can’t figure out how to keep Lyon from following him around.

Seth and Kyle don’t approve of letting Lyon traipse all over camp after Ephraim, and there have been mutterings about curses following the walking dead. But so far, none of them have shown signs of rot. They are just silent, pale, dead imitations. They do not talk, and show only the barest signs of recognition; Queen Ismaire’s eyes had flickered once when Joshua had walked past her, and her arm had half risen, but then he had left her line of sight and she had gone back to normal. Only Lyon has shown consistent recognition, and even then, it is limited to Ephraim and Eirika.

One day, Ephraim wakes up in the middle of the night. Lyon is hovering over him, and there is _something_ in his dead eyes. Lyon kneels and Ephraim has to quash the instinct to flinch from his cold, clammy hands when they touch him. They dive beneath Ephraim’s clothes, touching him and it should feel _wrong_ , it should be terribly invasive, but whenever Ephraim closes his eyes he can still see Lyon smiling as he died, and surely he can allow this... this _thing_ something that Lyon never had. It’s not like it can ever talk about this.

The next night, Lyon does the same thing. He takes it further this time, nails scraping over Ephraim’s tense stomach and Ephraim is no fool. He knows what Lyon wants, even though Lyon frowns and stares at his hands like he can’t understand what they’re doing.

By the fifth night, Lyon has pushed and pulled all of Ephraim’s clothing out of the way, and his cold, dead fingers are wrapping around Ephraim like they belong there. It’s nothing like a living hand. There’s no heat, no sweat to slick the way, but the cold feels good. Lyon licks his lips, as his hand moves, and those blank eyes rise from his task to meet Ephraim’s. There’s still nothing there, but there’s a questioning tilt to Lyon’s head, and his mouth is downturned slightly, and if Ephraim strains he can almost imagine that Lyon is alive again.

The sixth night, Lyon licks Ephraim and it feels _all_ wrong and Ephraim almost shoves Lyon away. Lyon’s tongue is dry and cold and yet. Lyon’s mouth is as cold as the rest of him, but it feels _good_ and Ephraim hates himself for letting Lyon do this.

The next day, Lyon smiles and his eyes light up and his mouth moves like he might speak. Ephraim knows he can’t let this continue, but it’s almost like having Lyon back.

And he can’t lose Lyon again.


	22. Tease (AU; Legault/Heath, R for implications)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Written for Xirysa for the prompt "coat."

Legault makes no secret of his appreciation for leather. Everyone in their unit knows that Legault enjoys it, perhaps rather more than is publicly acceptable. He tends to smirk about it whenever one of the rookies brings it up.

Matthew is therefore not surprised at all to see Legault’s latest bit on the side roll up on a motorbike, entirely clad in leather. Legault – who was put out that he hadn’t been able to show off to Astohl – promptly starts grinning like he’s the cat who caught the canary.

“Why hello there,” Legault says, stalking over and tugging his boyfriend’s helmet off. “Heath say hello to all the nice people,” Legault orders.

Heath – who looks like some sort of punk rocker – stammers a greeting. Leila smiles at him, which makes him blush. “I’m Leila,” she says. “That’s Matthew and Astohl. Legault’s told us all about you,” she continues, which is sort of true. Legault’s made a few off hand comments about his adorable new biker boy, and how much leather he wears, but he hasn’t actually told them anything specifically about Heath. Like his name for example.

“Nice to meet you,” Heath nods.

Legault drags him off the bike. “Did you bring your coat, Heath?” he asks.

Matthew rolls his eyes as Heath unfolds a huge coat from off the back of the bike; it’s leather, of course. Legault practically purrs when he sees it, all but forcing Heath into it and draping himself all over Heath.

“I really shouldn’t wear it while I’m on the bike,” Heath says. “It’ll get caught in the wheels.”

“Nonsense, I’ll hold it up for you,” Legault replies. He smirks again – or some more – and drags Heath back to the bike. “Ciao for now darlings,” Legault says, waving back at the group.

“Have fun,” Leila replies.

“Don’t I always?” Legault calls over the roar of the bike, settling his hands somewhere that makes Heath yelp. “Careful,” Legault admonishes him.

“Can you move your hands?” Heath squeaks.

“Oh _all_ right,” Legault says, like it’s the most demanding thing in the world.

“ _Not there_ ,” Heath hisses, batting at Legault’s wayward fingers.

“Legault, stop molesting your boy toy in front of us,” Matthew calls down to him, and he absolutely does not grin when Heath makes the most undignified series of noises ever.

Leila not very subtly pushes Matthew and calls “Ignore him, sweetie, you two go have a good time.”

“Ta ta for now,” Legault says as Heath finally manages to set them on their way. Heath’s leather coat billows impressively, undoubtedly making Legault very happy.

“Does he know what we do for a living?” Astohl asks, once they pair have rounded a corner and disappeared from sight.

“I doubt it. Legault’s not stupid,” Leila replies.

The next day, Legault swaggers in and smirks relentlessly until Astohl finally asks him what’s got him so happy.

“Oh nothing,” Legault idly replies. “Just the fact that Heath’s coat isn’t quite so pristine anymore.”

“We don’t need to know,” Matthew yells from across the room.

“Speak for yourself,” Leila mutters, looking utterly unrepentant.

~

And then Heath phones Legault at work and tells him he’s paying to have the coat washed, it’s _ruined, oh my god_ , you got _come all over_ the lining, _you bastard_ see if I let you use those leather handcuffs ever again.

A few days later, Heath makes a very similar call, although this time it is about his bike.


	23. Sea of Sorrow (Ashunera, PG)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Written for Xirysa for the prompt " _Kingdom come, their will was done, and now the earth is far away from any kind of heaven._ "
> 
> -The Wailing Jennys

In the time before, back when Ashunera had simply been Ashunera and had never known life as Ashera and Yune, she had been a Creator. She had walked from the waves and she had brought _life_ to the barren world. Back then, the world had been so new and quiet and fragile; the slightest misstep could destroy everything. But Ashunera was patient, and _life_ flourished around her, chaotic yet orderly at the same time. There were new things to see every day, and they were never the same. There were little green _plants_ that grew tall and hardy and Ashunera called them _trees_ , but there were also little plants that grew fast but short and she called them _grass_ and there were plants in between that she called _flowers_ , for their brief life-spans and fleeting beauty. Sometimes the trees grew flowers, and sometimes the grass grew tall and set new life into the air, to be carried far and wide.

And so the world had turned green and bountiful and Ashunera had named it Tellius. She had still been the only life to walk and talk and move freely, but that was right and good. When she had felt the first stirrings of _life_ beneath the waves from which she’d come, she had slipped back down into the depths and had marvelled at the little moving creatures she’d found there. Their lives were not as long as the plants above the sea, but they moved and they wiggled at her and they changed so quickly. Ashunera’s breath hadn’t even run short before they had changed, and turned into delicately beautiful silver things she called _fish_. And then after that they sped through changes, moving ever upwards, towards the plant world, until one of them crawled out onto the land with stubby almost-legs and took a gasping breath before going back to the sea.

And then Ashunera stood by the sea and waited. Slowly, the fish came, except they weren’t fish any longer, so she called them _reptiles_ and when the reptiles changed too, she called them _mammals_. And she found that as she watched and waited, the creatures that stayed near her changed faster than the others. Their limbs lengthened and their bodies changed, until one day she awoke to find a small feathered boy staring down at her. He trilled like a bird and Ashunera answered in kind. And then there were others; scaled dragon boys, and furred wolf girls, and beaked women and men with the manes of lions’. And they spoke slowly, but surely, sometimes in growls or squawks, but sometimes with the words that Ashunera used.

She called them _Zunanma_ and each and every one of them was different. Some were more like their smaller brethren than the others, but they all loved her and called her Ashunera, the Maiden of Dawn. They called her _Creator_ and they loved her.

But they were growing, strong and hardy like the trees. And Ashunera remembered the days when she simply watched and she told them all that it was her duty to watch them grow, as she had done since the very beginning. They cried out for her to stay, but Ashunera stayed firm and asked them to _grow_ beautiful and strong and free, like the trees and grass and everything else around them. And though they wept, the Zunanma listened and they went to lands far away, and they built structures Ashunera had never dreamed of, and they changed. There were some who turned away from their animals and shuttered themselves away from nature and they came to call themselves _beorc_. There were others who embraced the animals they came from, and though they changed into furless and featherless creatures too, they found they could still call upon their animal sides in times of great need, so they called themselves _laguz_.

And for a time, all was well. But then they began to fight, and Ashunera broke her mandate and went to them and begged them to stop fighting, but it had been so long since Ashunera had left them that they had nearly forgotten her. They were still her Zunanma, but they were not at the same time. They ignored her pleas, her cries to cease. They ignored her when she stepped between their armies on the battlefield and stained the soil around her feet with her tears.

And they fought about her, until the red reached her feet and Ashunera could not stop her cries of sorrow and rage and the waves rose up like a sea of teas, come to drown the world with Ashunera’s sorrow.

When Ashunera woke, she was floating upon the sea. She swam and swam, but she could only find one place still left and she stood upon it until a man washed up beside her. He still breathed and his heart still beat and she wept for him.

“Is this heaven?” he asked her, as he died but no. This was no heaven, and there would be no heaven while beorc fought laguz. Only once the Zunanma were restored would Ashunera uncover the world and the heaven that lay beneath it.

She closed her eyes and when she opened them again, she was Ashera and Yune and Ashunera was gone.


	24. Frozen (Heath/Legault, PG-13)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Written for Xirysa for the prompt "winter."

Winters are harsh in the mountains. There’s little food at the best of times, and few animals can survive the heights. Only wild wyverns and bandits come this far; Heath hasn’t seen any friendly human face for weeks. The one time he came across a group of bandits, they’d chased him off with axes and bows, laughing about taking down a wyvern rider. Only Hyperion’s wings had kept them safe; the sheer cliff had kept the bandits back, and Heath had been able to navigate his way to safety. But that was a good few weeks ago, and Heath’s food is running dangerously low. He’s only survived this long because he’d found a wild goat and even then, Hyperion had eaten most of it. Hyperion’s reserves are wearing thin too. Wyverns can and do come this high into the mountains, but only to lay their eggs. It seems counterintuitive, really, but female wyverns can breathe fire to keep their eggs warm.

Hyperion, unfortunately, is male. He can’t light fires, and his reserves are pitiful compared to female wyverns’. The very few wyverns Heath has seen this high up have been females who’ve lost their clutches, or females too young to breed and small enough to eat. Hyperion is good though, and doesn’t try to attack, even though he’s starving and tired and Heath hasn’t managed to find food for _days._ Legault had said he’d be back weeks ago, but winter had set in so suddenly and Heath can’t go and look for him because Legault can disappear when he wants to and he’s probably run off with another lost young wyvern rider by this point. Or maybe he’s been captured and brutally murdered. Or maybe, a very small part of Heath says, he tried to come back and froze to death in the snow. The guilt wars with the sense of betrayal, and the winter gets harsher.

By the fourth week, Heath is convinced that he’s going to die. He’s also sort of delusional, he thinks. He keeps on seeing Legault, hovering over him with a knife in his hands. Hyperion keeps on making these noises and glaring at Heath, but they can’t fly anywhere anymore and there’s hardly any food left and the firewood is all wet and Heath is cold and miserable and dying. That annoying part of himself he’s trying to ignore keeps on saying that Legault is frozen in the snow somewhere but Heath refuses to think of that. He won’t accept that. Legault can’t be in the snow. He’s probably resting down the mountain, worried about Heath, or maybe he’s hanging around waiting for Heath to pass out for long enough for Legault to slit his throat. But Legault is _not frozen in the snow._ Heath won’t let him be.

It’s halfway through the fifth week before Legault turns up. He’s wrapped up in what looks like twenty layers and there’s still frost in his eyebrows. He’s dragging a _huge_ bag of what Legault calls _acquired goods_ , and Heath stopped asking him why he called them that after the third time Legault turned up with them. Hyperion rumbles happily and head-butts him. Heath – who realises that he’s severely underdressed compared to Legault – waves at him from the cave mouth and tries to resist the urge to either punch or hug him.

“I thought you’d left me,” Heath still says, after they’ve all eaten and Legault has thrown at least three more blankets around Heath’s shivering frame.

Legault pauses and gives Heath a long look. “I said I’d be back,” he says.

“I know.” Heath can still hear the accusation in his voice. Outside, the wind howls and flurries of snow dance around the cave’s entrance. There is a tense silence between the pair and then Legault sighs and moves to sit next to Heath.

“Next time we’ll both go,” he murmurs. Heath nods, but it isn’t until Legault drags him over to Hyperion’s side and wraps himself around Heath that the guilt and anger fade away.

Legault is back. He’s safe. Somehow, the winter doesn’t seem so bad anymore.


	25. From the Shadows (Pelleas, PG-13)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Written for Raphiael for the prompt "shadowed."
> 
> _Kolr_ is an Old Norse byname that means "black" or "coal."

Pelleas likes having the halls dark. He’s quite fond of darkness. His magic frightens people – it looks almost _alive_ and _visceral_ after all – but Pelleas likes it. He’s always been a bit of a night owl, staying up late when the other orphans were sleeping. The spirit he met came at night, cloaked in darkness. It had hissed and tittered at him, stroked his hair and kissed his forehead. Its name had been _Kolr_ and it had whispered it over and over until Pelleas’ mind had been full of _Kolr_. Pelleas had made the contract then, had spoken the words Kolr had told him. Kolr had finally taken shape – instead of just a vaguely humanoid shadow, Kolr looked almost human. Its skin had been black as pitch, and its eyes had glowed, purple and red. Its mouth had been red, like a bloody gash. It hadn’t needed clothes; the shadows had slowly roiled over its body. It had had a long tail that lashed furiously and Pelleas had spoken the words of the contract. Once he had finished, Kolr had hissed out something unintelligible and had smirked again and kissed Pelleas’ forehead again.

“The contract is done little mage boy,” Kolr had said and then Pelleas had passed out. When he’d woken, it had been with strange new magicks and a mark upon his skin.

The darkness had been ever better then, for a time. For a _long_ time, truthfully. But then Master Izuka and Lady Al- _Mother_ had come, and had brought General Tauroneo, Jill and Zihark with them. He was a _Prince_ and Pelleas had sought the darkness again. He’d almost longed for those days, so long ago, when Kolr had still been around and had laughed more at him than with him. Pelleas still didn’t know why Kolr had decided to form a contract with him - he doubted he ever would know why – but he almost wished Kolr hadn’t. Maybe then Pelleas could slip back into the darkness, into the shadows and hide. Even if it meant never meeting Micaiah and Sothe and all the others, those such wonderful friends. The darkness, the shadows, they were all better than _this_.

Especially with the pact. The blasted _pact_. How Pelleas wished he’d never signed it, torn it into pieces and written one himself. That’s what Ashnard would have done; that’s what his _father_ would have done. But instead, Pelleas had relied on Izuka and then Izuka had used the very same shadows Pelleas so loved to disappear. And out of the shadows had come Senator Lekain. _Tainting_ them with his light. He only ever came at night, and the shadows twisted around him, breaking under his light. Lekain’s eyes roamed over Pelleas’ body, caught every shudder, every stupid betrayal of weakness. Anyone else, anyone else would have stood firm and denied Lekain, but Pelleas couldn’t. If Micaiah-

No, Micaiah did not deserve Lekain’s corrupt gaze to rove over her. She was slight, and looked so frail. She was so _strong_ though. But she shouldn’t have to deal with Lekain and his eyes and his demands. His endless demands. Pelleas could almost hear the one to come in Lekain’s tone. One day he’d say “Come with me, Pelleas,” and Pelleas would have to, because his country needed him. Daein would die if Pelleas didn’t obey. Pelleas would be Begnion’s lapdog if it meant Daein would live. He’d let Begnion rule from the shadows, from _Pelleas’_ shadows, if it meant Daein could survive.

Perhaps this was why Kolr had chosen to stay. Kolr always had liked laughing at Pelleas.


	26. No Sin in Love (Crossover/AU; Sephiran/Zelgius, PG)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Written for Raphiael for the prompt "Zelgius/Sephiran, Castlevania-esque vampire hunting AU."
> 
> As a bonus, this particular fic comes with [some worldbuilding backstory stuff.](http://rethira.dreamwidth.org/1499.html) Enjoy.

“Dracula is awake again,” Zelgius said. Sephiran sighed and easily stood. His prayers had not been answered.

“And there is no Belmont to stand against him,” he murmured. Zelgius stepped up behind him and touched his shoulder; the tiniest, briefest touch. Not enough to raise the suspicions of the church, but enough to make his feelings known.

“We will be enough, my lord sage,” he murmured. Several priests entered the room. He could hear them and feel their eyes on him. They still didn’t trust him, this man with holy magic and his trusted, yet fearsome, companion. They could feel something off about the pair of them.

“Well, we shall have to be,” Sephiran replied. He turned to nod to the wary priests. “My companion and I thank you for your hospitality, but we cannot stay any longer. The forces of darkness ride once again,” he said to them. No-one tried to stop them from leaving. No-one ever did.

Zelgius’ wound started acting up when they neared the castle. Evil power radiated from it. Its appearance was never the same, but the power that emanated from it was. Sephiran would know it always; that same power had stolen away his dear Altina, and worked to steal Zelgius from him too. The other man kept his stride steady as he walked, never betrayed the slightest pain, but Sephiran knew. The bite had never healed on Zelgius’ back. The vampire had been young and weak, but it had caught him off guard, scrabbling uselessly at him and finally landing a lucky bite just under his left shoulder blade. Zelgius had killed it before any further damage could be done, but the bite had festered and gone bad. No medicine had been able to heal it, and the church had been no help, chasing him away because he bore the taint of evil.

Sephiran had met him when he was on the brink of death and to this day he did not know what had driven him to kneel beside the dying man and kiss his lips until his shaking stopped and his eyes cleared. Neither had known how it had happened, but Sephiran’s kiss had driven some of the evil from Zelgius; not all of it, but some. It was a crime against God to kiss another man, they both knew, but it was keeping Zelgius alive, and he used his life to fight against true darkness, so Sephiran could not see that it was truly bad what they were doing. Certainly the world needed as many vampire hunters as it could get, with the Belmonts unable to fight any longer and the handful of other families over worked. Even Dracula’s son still slept, hidden away in his self made prison. If kissing Zelgius – gentle, patient, devoted Zelgius – was all it took to keep him alive, then Sephiran was hardly going to stop.

But while mere kissing was enough to keep the evil at bay when they walked amongst humans and in the light of God, when they trespassed in darkness, no matter how many kisses Sephiran gave to his devoted companion, they never seemed to be enough. More was always called for in Dracula’s castle; the slick slide of skin against skin, cries of pleasure and of love, that was what kept Zelgius safe. And truly, Sephiran found he began to look forward to it. Perhaps the darkness was finally dragging him down too, to join Altina, but Sephiran could not bring himself to care. He may have enjoyed his activities with Zelgius, but he would not have enjoyed them with any other male, of that he was sure. It was love that kept him coming back, love like he had had for Altina, just this time it was for Zelgius. There was no wrong in that, surely.

“I sense something strange, my lord sage,” Zelgius murmured. Sephiran slid from his horse’s back. The poor creature would be of little use to them now.

“I too. Shall we proceed?” Sephiran replied. Zelgius nodded and they disappeared within.


	27. Endless Dance of Three (Ephraim/Knoll(/Lyon), PG)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Written for Raphiael for the prompt "Ephraim/Knoll, angst."

Ephraim never does question how Knoll came to possess some of Lyon’s robes. Ephraim is very good at not questioning Knoll; all he does is smile usually, gently, and tell Knoll that he _doesn’t need to do this_. Sometimes – rarely – Knoll gives in, and lets himself be Knoll for a while. Never for long, but for a few short hours it is _Knoll_ in Ephraim’s arms, _Knoll_ being kissed, _Knoll_ who Ephraim loves. Ephraim never asks for one or the other. Most days he accepts Lyon’s presence beside him, shadowing him, watching him. He always tells Knoll when he slips from the bed that he can be whoever he wants to be, he can let Lyon go if he wants, but Knoll _can’t._

Lyon was so many things to Knoll and he still can’t quite let him go. So he dresses in Lyon’s clothes and he acts like Lyon, moves like Lyon, talks like Lyon, _loves_ like Lyon. And Ephraim lets him, draws him close and breathes Lyon’s name, kisses him softly and whispers words of love for Lyon. Ephraim has never questioned it, never will, always so accepting and sure. _If that’s what you want_ , he says whenever Knoll moves towards Lyon’s robes instead of his own. _You don’t have to do this, but if that’s what you want_ , he always says when they wake. Knoll is always Knoll first thing in the morning and he wishes he could be Lyon then, sometimes, but he is always _Knoll_. Ephraim sometimes tries to keep him, trails gentle touches and kisses across Knoll’s skin until Knoll cries out and begs him to stop. Ephraim never does, knows it is not a true command to cease, and drives Knoll over the edge.

It is those days that Knoll always pauses before choosing his robes. It is those days that he usually finds his hands moving towards his own clothes and pulling on the familiar blue cloth instead of Lyon’s robes. Knoll pretends not to notice the way Ephraim’s smile makes his eyes crinkle, or how Ephraim insists Knoll accompany him everywhere. Sometimes Knoll thinks that choosing to be _Knoll_ makes Ephraim happier than when he chooses to be Lyon, but then whenever Knoll next chooses red and black over blue, Ephraim will smile just as sweetly and say _Welcome back Lyon_ and it will be like he never left. Knoll still chooses Lyon over Knoll, because Lyon cannot have this, Lyon is gone and will not return, but like this Knoll can try to give him something, some taste of what it would have been like.

“You do not mind?” Knoll had asked in those first, fragile days and Ephraim had pulled him into his arms and held him before answering.

“Why should I mind? If this is what you want, then you shall have it,” he had murmured. People talked then, as they do now, but Ephraim has little patience for rumours and he does his duty as king. Knoll knows he doesn’t have all of Ephraim – sometimes his eyes wander to Eirika, and Knoll pretends not to notice – but he has a lot of him. He has Ephraim in the morning with his kind, gentle eyes and soft touches, and he has Ephraim during the day, the king who smiles wonderingly at his loyal shaman and he has Ephraim at night, when soft touches turn passionate and kind eyes smoulder with heat. It is never truly Knoll or Lyon at night, always both of them, sobbing against Ephraim’s skin and Knoll is sure Ephraim says something, but he can never quite make it out.

Knoll hopes this never ends, this endless dance of three people around one goal. He does not mind being two, and Ephraim seems content. And really, that is all Knoll can hope for. He still isn’t Lyon, and he knows that is who Ephraim truly wants, but he hopes that Ephraim can content himself with just Knoll.


	28. Fairytale (AU; Marth, Camus/Nyna, PG)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Written for sailorvfan10 for the prompt "Marth Van Hellsing." That's how it started, but then Camus got involved and it all went downhill from there.
> 
> This is also the last of my backdated prompts, so anything new posted here will be brand new, and not have been posted elsewhere.

The castle stood starkly against the moon. It was full tonight; he would have preferred to wait until it was waning at the very least, but the forces of darkness had conspired against him in that regard. They wait for no man, least of all a vampire hunter.

“Please, Van Helsing,” the village elder pleaded. “The castle’s lord has been plaguing us these past ten years. He is taking all our youngsters; maidens of marriageable age and youths alike.”

Van Helsing inclined his head. “Have any ever returned?” he inquired, casting his eyes over the small village. There were children about, but they were all pale and afraid. Mothers and fathers hovered near them, as if fearing that the lord of the castle would snap them up too. There were no children older than perhaps thirteen summers about, and all the adults had probably seen twenty five summers or more.

“Once,” the elder murmured. “She hasn’t been the same since. Every so often she tries to go back- we don’t stop her. But we always find her a few days later, collapsed on the ground and shaking. I can take you to her?”

“Please,” Van Helsing agreed. He was led to a small hut, set slightly apart from the rest. “Does the castle’s lord not try and reclaim her?”

The elder shook his head. “Go in.”

Van Helsing bowed his head and entered. Framed in the window, staring out towards the castle, was a beautiful and fair maiden. Blonde hair hung down her back in a gentle cascade. She did not turn when he entered.

“Milady,” Van Helsing began.

“Nyna,” she interrupted. “My name is Nyna.”

“Lady Nyna, then,” Van Helsing continued. “I go to the castle tonight.”

That got her attention; Nyna turned on her seat, revealing her beautiful face. “Oh please, take me with you,” she begged, reaching for him. “I must go there.”

Van Helsing looked her over for a moment, before nodding slowly. “You were not turned by their curse.”

Nyna shook her head. “I… escaped. But I must go back. I can stay here no longer.”

“Very well then,” Van Helsing nodded. “I will take you there.”

The villagers all turned to stare as the pair went past; they were nearing the bridge when they heard someone running behind them. A youth with green hair, clutching a bow and quiver came up to them.

“I’m Gordin,” he said. “If Nyna’s going, I am too.”

“I cannot take the entire village with me,” Van Helsing said, exasperatedly.

“I can fight,” Gordin replied, jutting out his chin. “And I have to go. Three years ago my master was taken up there, and next year my brother comes of age. I won’t let him be taken from me.”

Even though he didn’t entirely approve, Van Helsing consented to Gordin joining Nyna and him. “You must keep the lady safe,” Van Helsing said.

“I will,” Gordin agreed.

And so they set off, across the ominous bridge and into the great castle.

~

“So, you’re the Van Helsing,” the Vampire Lord Gharnef spat. Behind him roiled a terrible dark cloud – they had arrived just in time to prevent him from summoning the Dark Dragon, Medeus.

“I am,” Van Helsing said, drawing the blessed sword, Falchion. Behind him, Gordin and Jeorge readied their bows. Van Helsing spared a thought for the lady Nyna; the vampires had separated them early on, and they had not seen her since.

“And you will die here!” Gharnef cackled, raising his arm. Dark magic rained down upon them – Van Helsing tossed a phial of holy water up to dispel it, and Gordin and Jeorge let fly a volley of blessed arrows. They stuck Gharnef’s arm, the holy water sizzling as it touched his unholy skin. Gharnef screamed and ripped out the arrows, his hand burning when it touched the shafts. Holy wood and arrowheads dipped in holy water made for perfect vampire slaying equipment.

Van Helsing leapt up to the dais, swinging the Falchion in a wide arc; it grazed Gharnef’s cheek, but he had never been the intended target. The billowing cloud that would have become the Dark Dragon shrieked when the Falchion touched it. Within seconds, it was gone. Gharnef bellowed a wordless cry of rage, and would have cut down Van Helsing but for the arrows in his back.

Van Helsing turned, the Falchion flashed, and Gharnef’s head hit the floor with a satisfying _thunk_.

For a moment, there was silence.

Then someone began to clap. Slow, steady, almost mocking claps. A man ducked out from the shadows.

“Congratulations,” he said. “But Mad Old Gharnef was only one of us here, and certainly not our leader.”

“Then we will rid the castle of the rest of your kind,” Van Helsing replied, steadying the Falchion.

“Wait!”

The cry came from high on one of the nearby towers. Both Van Helsing and the vampire glanced up, and there was Nyna, leaning from the window. Her hair streamed around her in the wind, and tears covered her face.

“Wh- _Nyna_ ,” the vampire said, sounding shocked. He leapt up, easily scaling the tower, to pull her from the window and carry her down. “I told you to never return here,” he continued.

“I know,” Nyna sobbed. “But I could not do that.” She touched the vampire’s face. “I _love_ you.”

The vampire’s face grew serious, even as he leant into her touch. “I would not have you live the same life that I do, Nyna,” he murmured. “You must forget about me.” His eyes met Van Helsing’s. “You, Marth Van Helsing. I offer you this pledge; I will never again allow any villagers to be taken from their homes, not by any residents of this castle, if you will take Nyna from this place.”

“Camus _don’t-_ ”

“And how will I know you speak the truth?” Van Helsing asked.

“I swear it on my name of Camus the Sable- and on my love for Nyna,” the vampire replied.

Van Helsing nodded slowly. “I believe you. And I would accept, but for the lady herself.”

Camus looked angry for a fraction of a second. “I would not have her here. I would not have her see what monsters really are. Is that not-”

“I am a well-travelled man, Camus the Sable. And I will tell you this. There is a monastery, thirty leagues or so from here. It provides holy wood and holy water to all hunters, if they need it, and their only request is this; ‘If you should ever find a vampire that hates their curse, then send them to us, and we will heal them.’” Van Helsing sheathed his sword. “If you will take the lady Nyna with you, and leave this castle, then my friends and I will remove the infestation and you can find peace with your lady love.”

Camus stared at Van Helsing, appraising him. “And if the monastery cannot heal me?”

“I cannot imagine that they would not be willing to provide sanctuary to one such as you,” Van Helsing replied. Camus inclined his head and tightened his grip on Nyna. “Follow the rising sun, and you will find the monastery. Safe travels to you.”

“And you.” With one balletic leap, Camus had cleared the castle’s walls.

“And now it is time to get to work,” Van Helsing said. Gordin and Jeorge nodded.


	29. sanguine (Crossover; Ephraim/Lyon, PG)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Written for CrimsonMorgan for the prompt "Lyon as Subaru and Ephraim as Seishirou."

Ephraim always likes to walk through the park, and Lyon can hardly blame him. The blossoms are always so beautiful when Ephraim leads the way - flushed and pink, even out of season. Ephraim always seems to know the way too, even when Lyon himself doesn't know exactly where his job is. He has directions of course, but before Ephraim came along, he used to get lost a lot.

Ephraim can see the spirits too, which is nice. Lyon's always been able to see them, and he's had tutors and such like who have as well, but it's nice to have a proper friend who can too. And without any sort of help as well! Knoll had needed practice and meditation to see them, or so he'd said, but Ephraim can see them or sense them without any help at all. It's quite a relief to be honest; Lyon would hate for Ephraim to get hurt.

Of course, while he's thinking this, Lyon is getting completely lost. When he glances around, he has no idea where he is, or where he's meant to be and it's night, so he can't ask for directions.

"Lost again, are we?" Ephraim asks, making Lyon jump. He's right behind him, wearing his customary black jacket. "You're hopeless," he continues (fondly, Lyon thinks).

"Um, yes, I guess I am," Lyon replies, ducking his head.

Ephraim laughs warmly and turns Lyon around one handed. For a moment, Lyon thinks he can smell iron. He points ahead and says, "Keep on straight until you reach a crossroads, then turn left. Take the second right after that and you'll see the shop on your left."

"Thank you," Lyon says, graciously. He bows just slightly to Ephraim then hurries on his way.

Ephraim laughs again, and draws his other hand from his pocket. It's slick with blood. "What will I do with you," Ephraim murmurs.


	30. Save a Wyvern; Ride a Tibarn (Crossover; Tibarn/Heath, G)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Written for Sriya.

Heath is 100% sure there is a giant eagle following him. It's making Hyperion edgy and there is nothing worse than an edgy wyvern. Except possibly an edgy wyvern when they're meant to be on the run and how are they meant to avoid detection if Hyperion keeps flying low to the ground and there's a giant (green, because life hates Heath) eagle following them around.

"We're going to die," Heath mutters. "We're going to die and that stupid bird is going to eat us."

There's a snort behind him, and Heath flails inelegantly before tumbling off of Hyperion's back. A pair of alarming arms catches him. Alarming because there shouldn't be arms right now, Heath should be tumbling to his death.

"Can you call your beast back?" asks a deep voice from somewhere above Heath's ear.

"Uh. Can we um, land first?" Heath may not be afraid of heights, but that only extends to when he's sitting on a wyvern and can't see the abyss beneath his feet.

"Hang on," the voice says, and suddenly they're tilting down and Heath shrieks in a most unmanly way and clings to the alarming arms and as soon as his feet touch the ground he keels over and decides that maybe he's been a bit very wrong about this whole flying business.

Hyperion lands beside him and nuzzles at his back, making a rumbling noise of concern. The person with the voice and the arms chuckles. Heath turns around and-

He's hallucinating. Heath must be hallucinating. There is no way a man can be standing there with gigantic wings sprouting from his back. It simply isn't done.

"Beorc," the man snorts, shaking his head. The wings that are absolutely not attached to his back shuffle slightly, settling their feathers.

"Who are you?" Heath croaks.

The man smiles, and Heath really wishes he hadn't. "I'm the big stupid bird that's going to eat you."

"Oh," Heath replies, faintly.


	31. The Emperor's Dream (Fusion, Lyon(/Fomortiis), G)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> for Lauren for the prompt "can you do something like lyon as ousama and formortiis as hitori"
> 
> a fire emblem/hatoful boyfriend fusion. some knowledge of hatoful boyfriend: holiday star might be required
> 
> (i’m gonna use [ashy’s fomortiis gijinka](http://eltshan.tumblr.com/post/46353354713/my-friends-harassed-me-into-gijinka-ing-the-demon) bc not even lyon’s dumb enough to trust a gross demon monster thing) (also i guess spoilers for holistar a little? gomenasai)

"There there," he murmurs. “Soon all the pain will go away."

"Yes," Lyon replies. He shakes a bit, but… it’s done now. “You’ll be there?"

Formotiis smiles.

The world goes dark.

~

He’s scared, so he gets off the train. He’s lonely. Where is Fomortiis? Where is he? He said he would be here.

Maybe he’s lost.

There’s a candle in the darkness - he lights it so Fomortiis can find him. But other people come instead, and they are sad and lonely and scared, and they say that Fomortiis is never coming.

_It’s scary all on your own._

Lyon stops being Lyon.

The Emperor reigns supreme.


	32. "Cousins" (Kurth/Soren, G)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> for Rosage

"If you continue with that motion, you will shut down my primary speech matrix," Soren comments.

Kurth stops and ducks his head apologetically. “Sorry.”

Soren snorts and says, “I do not understand how you can be unaware of your own schematics.”

Kurth offers a small smile and says, “Father wanted me to be as human as possible, so he had most of that knowledge wiped.”

Soren sniffs. “That seems very reckless. What if you were damaged and alone? You could not repair yourself.”

Kurth smiles and replies, “Well then I shall rely on you to fix me.”


	33. after (Gerik/Innes, PG)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> for Raphiael

He was never like Ephraim. He never wanted to be a mercenary, to give up his rank and be a peasant. Being king was a duty that Innes was glad to accept - but there’s no Frelia to be king of any longer.

In fact, there are hardly any places left, and most of them care very little for a king with no country.

When Gerik had offered Innes a place amongst his mercenaries, Innes had taken it. He’d have been a fool not to. At least this way he had a livelihood.

Those first few weeks had been hard; people died or were injured. Tethys’ brother had almost died, and she and the sage who’d been with them had left to look after him. Innes didn’t begrudge her that - if he’d had the option to save Tana, he’d have taken it a thousand times over.

It’s been just him and Gerik for a while now. They stick to Jehanna mostly. The demons and monstrosities fare badly on the sand and in the heat, and people have still managed to eke out a living here.

The first time Gerik kisses him, Innes is surprised, although only a little.


	34. Princess (fem!Lyon/Eirika, G)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> for Raphiael

She trips on her dress (again) and falls over. Several people laugh. She wants to disappear. Go back to the library and wear sensible clothes and not be the Crown Princess anymore.

"Are you okay? Here, let me help you up."

She takes the hand when it’s offered and looks up into warm blue eyes and a smiling face.

"Th-thank you," she replies, blushing.

"I know how troublesome those dresses are. There’s a trick to walking in them you know, shall I teach you?" the girl replies.

"Ye-yes please. Oh, um, I’m-"

"I know who you are. Oh, but where are my manners- I’m Eirika, from Renais. I hope we can be friends."

She blushes and says, “Yes. Yes, I do too.”


	35. Nailah's Wolves (Nailah/Rafiel, G)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> space pirate au for Raphiael

"Target sighted."

“Good. All hands to battle stations! We take this ship and dine well tonight, men!”

"Aye-aye!"

~

The curs all shied away from her. To be expected of course - one of them pissed himself and squealed about the air lock. Her wolves all laughed to themselves about that, but not before shoving him into decon so he didn’t stink up the place.

They ransacked the ship with brutal efficiancy. Imperial cruisers always had such nice things, even ones adapted to carry passengers, like this one.

As for said passengers - Rafiel all but threw himself into Nailah’s arms as soon as he saw her. The others were a bit more docile, but no less happy to see her.

"I thought we’d never be free," Rafiel confesses later.

Nailah smiles, baring her teeth. “No Imperial dog will escape my wolves,” she promises.

(It’s better that Rafiel doesn’t know about the entire armada she’d torn through to reach him. No-one steals from her.)


	36. meagre (Gerik/Innes)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> more space pirates!

~

It’s an open secret that Gerik (wasn’t he meant to be hired help? when did he get promoted?) has warmed the Captain’s bed on more than one occasion.

~

The first time they meet, Innes’ hand has just been sliced open, and he’s probably going to be killed. By some no-name naval captain as well.

Then Gerik appears, a laserblade in one hand and a forceshield in the other.

They win that battle. Gerik never reclaims his forceshield, so Innes has it incorporated into the synthskin he needs for his new hand. He’s not sure Gerik ever realises it.

~

Innes repays the favour a thousand times over. He uses a lightbow, the sort that can be drawn with one hand, so he can keep a hand on the wheel during battles. Gerik fights on the frontlines when it comes to it, but Innes can hit a target three miles away, so it hardly matters.

~

It’s an easy, familiar sort of relationship. Gerik doesn’t ask for much, and he’s loyal, which is all Innes wants. He has no qualms about piracy either, which is always a plus.

~

"You should grow your hair out," Gerik says one day.

Three months later, Innes has long enough hair that he has to tie it back. Gerik says it makes him look more like a pirate, although really the sightpatch does a good enough job of that.

"Next you’ll be telling me to amputate my leg," Innes snaps.

"Nah, I’ve got you covered there," Gerik replies, and that’s how Innes discovers that Gerik lost a leg during a battle fifteen years ago. “And a friend," Gerik says, “but I got a friend in return, so I think it all balances out."

~

What people don’t see is that Captain Innes is just as often in Gerik’s (rather meagre) quarters as Gerik is in Innes’.


	37. Monster (Pelleas, PG)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> for Raphi

When Pelleas was little, the smallest of eight boys in the orphanage (although he wasn’t the youngest), they’d tease him with tales of monsters that lived where you couldn’t see them. In the dark was one of the favourite hiding places, but Pelleas - being a queer child - hadn’t been afraid of the dark when he was little.

So they lived under the bed, behind bookshelves, in the corner of his eye. They were always hiding, always ready to pounce out on unsuspecting little boys and gobble them up.

Pelleas has found that the real monsters sit in plain sight. The real monsters don’t bother with hiding from their victims; they march up to them in broad daylight and converse with them, keeping their words balancing on the fine edge between threatening and civil.

The real monsters know what they are and are proud of it.

Daein’s population is lower than it’s been since people first moved here. The ones who aren’t dead have fled in fear of the plague that’s apparently sweeping through the populace.

Senator Lekain comes almost daily now. He says, “You could end this. Just give us your army.”

Pelleas considers striking Lekain down where he stands. The magic burns at his finger tips. He found a tome of dark and evil magic in the vaults, a relic of a bygone age, he’d supposed. It would devour Lekain, rend him limb from limb and turn him into dust.

The idea makes Pelleas sick. The idea sends a sick thrill of pleasure through him. One day, Pelleas suspects, the pleasure will win out.


	38. thereafter (Lyon/zombie!Ephraim, R for implications)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> for Raphi
> 
> i guess it's time to break out the implied necrophilia tag (only very minorly implied)

Ephraim dies at Renvall and Lyon finds him there.

He kills Orson with a flick of his wrist, watches impassionately as the man slowly keels over. Somewhere behind him, he can hear Ephraim’s knights fighting for their lives - they will die soon enough. It is of no matter.

The soul of the vessel cries out for Ephraim, and Lyon breathes out slowly - in Grado, the Emperor’s body collapses in on itself, to the collective horror of the spectators, while in Renvall-

In Renvall, Ephraim’s body slowly knits itself together again. The stomach wound seals shut, and Ephraim stands. Blank, blue eyes stare over Lyon’s shoulder. There’s a line of blood down his chin; Lyon reaches out to wipe it away, and the soul of the vessel sobs at how cold his skin is.

He takes Ephraim back to Renais, spreads word of the triumphant return of the Prince, and when Eirika comes - armed, but with only half a dozen men behind her and weak to her brother’s face - Lyon watches as his dear Ephraim runs her through. Their bracelets open the way to the stone, and it shatters under Ephraim’s fingers.

They ride to Rausten after, Jehanna having fallen to Caellach and Valter, and Ephraim leads men still loyal to Renais through the castle to the stone itself. Riev kills the Pontifex, and the Princess after, and that stone too is shattered.

Lyon takes his real body, the body of a Demon King, and the soul of the vessel finally falls silent.

He crushes Ephraim’s corpse to dust in his hand, and lays all to waste thereafter.


End file.
